


Just a fall

by zenzeromante



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dom/sub Undertones, Gen, Implied Arisugawa Homare/Guy/Takatoo Tasuku, M/M, Recovering Alcoholic Takatoo Tasuku
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenzeromante/pseuds/zenzeromante
Summary: Tasuku learns to let himself fail sometimes.Tasuku should be thankful—and he is, but for the wrong reasons. Because in the middle of all that chaos, his legs bouncing under the table become a little less noticeable. His fingers promptly swapping his glass with Homare’s half-empty one fall out of sight. And his lips trembling, they get hidden behind a glass he shouldn’t be holding in the first place, even if everyone expects him to.That’s the hard part: acting like his old self. Because his old self knew when to stop, knew when he went overboard, knew when it was time to call it a night. But his new self? He’s relentless. He demands Tasuku to raise the glass to his lips, and tries to lure him in once again—the chokehold of a mortal enemy disguised as the touch of a gentle lover.
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Takatoo Tasuku, Guy/Takatoo Tasuku
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Just a fall

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [A3! Rare Pairs Week](https://twitter.com/a3_69min) (specifically, day 5: domesticity), but it went so out of prompt real fast and English truly is a bitch, so here we go, finishing it weeks later (orz)
> 
>  **Extended trigger warnings:** explicit depiction of alcoholic (quasi-)relapses and typical behaviours of alcoholic people (lying, mood swings); non-explicit mentions of vomiting.

He’s already lost it once.

He realises it now, sitting at the overcrowded dinner table. Tsumugi is at his left; he thinks he’s being subtle, stealing gentle glances at him, but he isn’t. Neither is Homare—though to be fair, he’s probably not even trying. He’s talking more than usual today, his voice high and drunk with alcohol and joy. At times, when the topic changes and more drinks are poured, Homare reaches out and grabs Tasuku’s arm. He keeps his fingers there, linked at his wrist, his thumb stroking the back of Tasuku’s hand—a lively reminder to keep his attention focused on him, on his words, on his poems.

And today, just for today, Tasuku doesn’t mind.

Because he’s already lost it once.

He looks around at his troupe mates. The younger ones are sitting at the other end of the table, hands busy with a card game. Chikage and Banri are there too, childish grins on their faces, giving the boys wrong suggestions. Tsuzuru’s scolding keeps falling on deaf ears, but that’s what makes it fun.

Omi is still cooking—hasn’t stopped since Tasuku walked back home a couple of days ago—and next to him Guy is cutting vegetables with a very sharp, very shaky knife. Citron cracking jokes right behind them isn’t much of help, but what’s new? Nothing. Everything is how it used to be, how it’s always been.

Until it isn’t.

“Taa-chan,” Tsumugi says, his voice ever so thoughtful, “do you want to drink some more?”

Tasuku stares down at his empty glass. His fingers are flexed shut around its shape as if it were a challenge, as if trying to make it crack, to shatter it to pieces. His knuckles have turned white, his tendons are burning under the constant strain. But he almost didn’t notice it.

Swiftly, he relaxes his hold and clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks,” he says holding his glass towards Tsumugi. He tries not to look at the deep-colored wine dripping out of the bottle, bleeding red like an open wound and falling softly into the mouth of the tainted glass. Instead, he scrunches his face into a scowl and says, “And stop calling me Taa-chan!”

The air in the room shifts. It’s faint but it’s there—it’s in the way Tsumugi’s smile turns just a little more sincere and Homare’s grip on his wrist just a little lighter.

And just like that the conversations start once again, like nothing happened, like nothing’s wrong. Chitchats about daily chores and etudes get mixed up with old memories of happiness and sadness and melancholy, but not regrets—never regrets. Those are for another time, when the tension will loosen its hold on the dorm, when talking to Tasuku will stop feeling like handling a time bomb.

He’s not stupid. He knows that’s what they’re thinking—he can feel it. It’s the reason why all the members are sitting there on a weekday evening, even if tomorrow there are schools and jobs and training to attend. Even if all the chatters are old news. Even if there’s nothing new to say.

But they never know how long it will last this time. So they try hard, for him and for the troupe.

Tasuku should be thankful—and he is, but for the wrong reasons. Because in the middle of all that chaos, his legs bouncing under the table become a little less noticeable. His fingers promptly swapping his glass with Homare’s half-empty one fall out of sight. And his lips trembling, they get hidden behind a glass he shouldn’t be holding in the first place, even if everyone expects him to.

That’s the hard part: acting like his old self. Because his old self knew when to stop, knew when he went overboard, knew when it was time to call it a night. But his new self? He’s relentless. He demands Tasuku to raise the glass to his lips, and tries to lure him in once again—the chokehold of a mortal enemy disguised as the touch of a gentle lover.

_It’s just a sip._

_A simple sip can’t hurt._

_You just have to close your eyes._

Tasuku forces his eyes to stay open, to stay focused. To not roll back into his head, to not let his strict control turn loose even for one single moment. Because that’s all he needs: a hiccup of a second, and he’ll lose it all once again.

He jumps up without realising, the chair falling backward with a loud _thunk_ , wine staining the table like blood on a crime scene. He tries not to pay attention to Tsumugi’s shaken face, to Homare’s sudden flinch. That’s what makes him doubt himself. Because—he shouldn’t say it, but he knows it’s true—it would be so much easier to just get drunk and get it over with. Just one sip, and he’d be able to turn down the noise, the shaking, the wanting. Just one sip, and Tsumugi’s eyes would drop the questions, the pity, the guilt. Just one sip, and Homare’s words would stop jumbling up in his head, making him confused, suspicious, ferocious.

But at what cost?

He’s already lost it once— _they_ ’ve already lost _him_ once.

“Uh,” he starts, his voice breaking just a tiny bit, “I think I’ll go for a run after all.”

“At midnight?” says Sakyo, the faint slurring in his voice as dangerous as a siren’s song. “It’s too late, just go to sleep.”

Next to him, Itaru sits up a little straighter. “Well, it’s not _exactly_ midnight. Just _almost_ midnight. And I know,” he says, punctuating his argument with quick taps on the screen of his phone, “because my daily login bonus is not here yet.”

“Changes nothing.”

Itaru pauses for a moment. “You’re probably right,” he says, slowing his thumbs down for the first time in the evening. He even raises his eyes, and that’s weird—and it becomes even weirder when he stares deep into Tasuku, a questioning look on his face. “Sooo,” he says, drawing the sound out, “you going for a run at midnight?”

“Yeah,” Tasuku replies. He throws a quick glance to his left. Tsumugi is cleaning up the mess he’s made on the table like he does every time he finds Tasuku puking his stomach out in the trash bin of their room. He is always so kind, offering words of comfort until the last empty retches stop, even when Tasuku doesn’t tell him anything, even when Tasuku doesn’t explain himself. Tsumugi accepts him anyway, leaving him space, waiting for him.

With Homare isn’t as easy. But with Homare nothing is easy, and that’s what Tasuku says to himself to avoid looking at him in the eyes.

Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets, trying not to think about the small drops of wine making his fingers sticky and wet. “Yeah,” he says again, “I need to shake some thoughts off.”

“Typical muscle freak,” says Yuki from the other end of the table.

Tasuku looks towards him, his brows rising. “Did you say something?”

“Me?” Yuki stretches his face into a fake smile. “I don’t think so, no.”

It’s easier to leave when the room is filled with laughter. Even if they’re strained ones.

Tasuku runs.

He’s been running since he became a teenager, after his brother suggested him to. “You should try it out,” he said to him years prior, both hands on Tasuku’s shoulders massaging the tension out of them. “Let your body take over, don’t overthink it.”

So he did: he started running and never stopped. Because running is easy. He doesn’t have to think while he runs—he’s too busy stretching his muscles to the max of their endurance, feeling the adrenaline rush into his system, roaring in his veins, screaming in his ears. It’s so intense, so intoxicating—he can’t help but get high on it.

Until it vanishes.

No matter how hard he tries to chase after it, at some point it simply vanishes. All it leaves behind is wrecked debris of satisfaction, like a sand castle flooded by a sudden wave. And that’s when the thoughts storm in once again, and they’re so loud, so deafening, and they just never stop—they keep coming, and coming, and coming, until Tasuku starts running again.

But he can outrun himself.

And that’s when he picks up the bottle.

“Not today,” he says, his breath short and shallow, sweat dripping down his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. He feels it in his mouth, mixed in with the phantom taste of the red wine he could’ve had tonight if only—if only—

If only he hadn’t already lost it once.

But he has, and he can feel it. Because now one step feels like forty; one breath feels like getting his throat stabbed with needles. And the path he usually covers in half an hour—he’s still not done with it, not even forty-eight minutes in.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to feel, to _seem_ this weak. Not when Guy is running just behind him.

Usually, when they run together they’re always side by side, keeping the same pace, never slowing down. And that’s what makes it challenging: they try to overtake each other but never really succeed, and then they try again and fail again, just to try it out one more time. But today—today Guy isn’t even trying.

Because he knows he would win.

Tasuku grits his teeth and picks up his pace. He tries not to think of how hard this is hitting his body, how painful it is to run even if he’s running that slowly, but—he’s tried a lot of things today, but nothing really worked.

He can still feel it: the gentle flowing of the wine, the drunkenness in his troupe mates’ voices, the little droplets sticking to his own fingers; Tsumugi’s face, scared for him, and Homare’s face—scared _of_ him.

He winces. And then winces again, and again, and again, until he realises it’s not because of Homare’s fear, but because the pain in his legs has slowly become unbearable.

He kind of deserves the fall.

What he doesn’t deserve is Guy’s strong and fast hands grabbing him before he gets hurt, lowering him to the ground, reaching for his knees, his shins, his ankles to check if everything is alright, if nothing is hurt.

“It’s just a cramp,” he says, voice low and thick with shame.

Guy doesn’t waste time. He simply asks, “Where?”

“Just—The left calf.”

Guy grabs his left foot and puts it on the middle of his chest, not stopping at the thought of getting his shirt dirty with mud and grass. Instead, he leans forwards, his weight now pressing onto Tasuku’s foot to force his knee to bend just slightly. That pressure helps—it eases up the pain, making it a little less distracting, a little more manageable. But it’s still there, and it keeps being there even when Guy closes his hands right over Tasuku’s heel and lets his fingers dig deep into his calf.

Guy doesn’t take it easy on him. He puts all of his strength into the massage, pushing in and pressing down, releasing Tasuku’s leg just enough to let his tendons take a break before he dives back into it, pushing in and pressing down once more, and once more, and once more. His strokes are so firm, so steady that soon Tasuku’s muscles give in and let themselves be reshaped under Guy’s attentions.

It takes time, more time than Tasuku likes to admit, but at some point his calf loses its stiffness and breathing becomes a tiny bit easier.

But _easier to breathe_ means _easier to think_ , and that’s when Tasuku realises he’s sitting on the ground, his legs unstable, his hands dirty, and he’s so helpless it’s humiliating—so much that the tension snaps right back under his skin.

In the back of his mind, Tasuku thinks he should be grateful. Grateful, because Guy is there with him, and Guy doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t look at him in search of answers. He simply keeps pushing, pressing, massaging, until his hands hike a little higher to reach the hollow of Tasuku’s knee, right under the hem of his shorts.

Guy is still quiet when he grabs Tasuku’s thigh in a tight grasp. His hands are so big they almost swallow him whole—and then they sink deep into his skin, forcing their way onto the tight bundle of Tasuku’s hamstrings. He doesn’t stop when Tasuku’s leg stops shaking; instead he keeps going, his touch so persistent, so commanding that Tasuku can’t help but surrender. And when his body mellows out under Guy’s incessant care, that’s when everything becomes clear once again, and Tasuku just can’t stop himself.

He _has_ to say something.

“This,” he starts, unsure of what to say but needing to say it anyway, “this usually doesn’t happen.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Guy says. He looks up for a fraction of a second, eyes so green flashing with matter-of-factness. “It is just a fall.”

But as much as Tasuku would love to get coddled by that lie, he simply can’t lie to himself. Not anymore. Because it isn’t—it isn’t _just a fall_. It’s the second time he falls. And he’s starting to feel it. His body is heavy, not with straining but with a profound pain that goes deep, touches his nerves, crackles in his brain, making everything foggy and muddled and so, so distressing that he’s left with nothing but wanting to forget.

And to forget, he must drink.

But he can’t because he’s already lost it once. He’s already lost _this_ once—the feeling of Guy’s hands on his body, the feeling of Tsumugi’s relaxed laugh late at night, the feeling of Homare’s lively voice waking him up in the morning. Because when he drinks he doesn’t just forget the bad stuff—he forgets everything, even the emotions he feels, even the people he loves.

And he doesn’t want to lose them again. But what else can he do when his mind takes over and running doesn’t cut it anymore?

Guy slowly lowers Tasuku’s foot to the ground, seemingly satisfied with his work. Heʼs stopped his massages; now his hands are simply there, sweaty palms on Tasuku’s tense thighs, like that’s where they belong. And maybe they do, because they’re so warm, so steady, so forcefully gentle—they keep Tasuku’s mind from wandering around and getting lost in a new jungle of thoughts.

Then Guy rises up to his feet and Tasuku feels it once again—the loss of his touch. It’s the same feeling he gets when Tsumugi talks to him like he’s unsure of what to say; the same feeling he gets when Homare’s just a little bit quieter, a little less bubbly, and Tasuku knows it’s simply his fault.

And it hurts. It hurts so much because he’s sober.

But then Guy says, “When you fall,” his voice as warm and steady as his now-lost touch, “you can just get up once again.” And while he says that he reaches out with his hand, his palm open towards Tasuku, fingers slightly flexed into an offering.

And that looks so easy. As if Tasuku could just stretch his arm out towards Guy and let himself get brought back to his feet. As if he could just tell him to touch him again, checking on him while holding him down, keeping him grounded in the present. As if he could just give up his control and let his body take a break into Guy’s hands.

And then he asks himself—what’s stopping him from doing just that?

He’s already lost it once anyway.

What else does he have to lose?

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't my usual style, but it also isn't my usual language, so I told myself, why not try something out? Hope it wasn't that bad. I also hope there aren't too many mistakes (in which case, please _do_ let me know, but please do it gently, or else I will cry................)


End file.
